I want the sidewalk to crumble at my feet.
I want to disappear into the pavement.
I want to be someone else.
I want it to be yesterday when I was still pregnant. When I cared about what my body consumed. When reading the packaging labels at Trader Joe’s was the main priority of the day.
Chia seeds are good for you.
Organic fruits and veggies are best.
Stay away from shellfish.
Put that sushi down, girl.
I want to walk slow as I balance the brown paper bags in my hands, stopping at every third corner to give myself and baby a rest. I want to put flaxseeds in my smoothie as a healthy alternative to DHA supplements. Omega-3 is essential to healthy brain growth. I want to pee the minute I walk inside the door and right before I leave the house.
I want to rub my belly, the one that doesn’t quite exist. I want to whisper to it, tell him how much I love what’s so newly inside, what’s growing every day and will someday soon be mine. I want to order decaf and ask the barista which cheeses aren’t pasteurized. I want the bartender to notice that I’m drinking sparkling water and ask me how far along I am. Five weeks, I’ll say and blush. It’s all so new!
I want to complain about missing red wine. I want to feel tired, even if it’s all in my head. I want to nap because I should, because it’s good for me, not because it’s a sign of pending depression or some other lurking darkness inching inside.
Sadness is why I nap now. Why I can’t get out of bed until the morning news is over, until after Hoda and Kathie Lee are tipsy and the women of The View are fired up in vain.
Hopelessness is why I cry. It’s where I am when I’m not saying a word, it’s when my mind is viewing the ultrasound screen showing nothing but the emptiness of where a sack once lay.
Fear is why I’m angry. Why I want to glare at the belly coming towards me, why I want to scream at a stroller passing by. Because what if we will never feel a kick or sleep awkwardly in our queen-sized bed when my body takes up more than my half?
What if this happens again? What if our parts don’t connect in a way that’s favorable for reproduction. What if we aren’t enough? What if we will never be enough?
Never. Be. Enough.
Every time I use the restroom, I will worry. I will cringe at the sight of color on a tissue. I will forever be changed.
He will too, and it’s all my fault.
I assured him it’d be okay. That we should get excited. That worrying is a waste of energy. That we should enjoy this time, even early on.
That we were meant to be parents!
What a bold faced lie I told.
work in progress